


Casualties of War

by last_illusions (injured_eternity)



Category: NCIS
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-27
Updated: 2008-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:24:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/injured_eternity/pseuds/last_illusions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: He wants to fix something for once, instead of breaking everything he touches. "War casualties happen." Angsty Tony/Ziva, whether romance or friendship, post-ep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casualties of War

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: 6x09 ["Dagger"]

She gets up while Gibbs is still talking to Amanda, but her partner doesn’t think anything of it—at least not until she doesn’t come back. So he gets up, like he’s going to see Abby, or he’s going to the head, and maybe it’s because they have nothing pressing at the moment, or maybe it’s because Gibbs sees his daughter in Michelle’s sister, but whatever the reason, his boss doesn’t say anything.

He pokes his head into the break room, around the staircase, back by interrogation. Nothing. Then he finds himself in front of the women’s bathroom, and he hesitates.

 _Oh, please let her be in here_ , he thinks to himself, casting his eyes heavenward. She’s wandered into the men’s room countless times to accost him, and all it’s gotten her is weird looks from whoever else’s been in there at the time. With his luck, he’s going to return the favour and get himself kicked in the balls and punched in the face in the process.

With a sigh at the things he does for his partner, he pushes the door open to find her standing at the sink, head down, but when she hears him come in, she spins, her hand automatically going to her gun.

“Easy,” he says, holding his hands up and shutting the door behind him.

There’s no one else in there, so he sticks the chair in front of the door, holding it closed in a parody of privacy.

“What are you doing?”

Her tone is hard and unwelcoming, but the tears still running down her cheeks make it somehow less threatening.

“You’re the only one who can walk into the wrong bathroom?”

Though the words are teasing, his tone is unusually gentle: Ziva David can be terrifying when she wants to be, but she doesn’t cry—not when there’s someone around to be a witness. She turns away from him, but at least she looks less like she’s on the verge of killing him. Somewhat futilely, she draws her hand across her eyes, refusing to look his way. She hates losing control; it’s been ingrained in her that as a Mossad officer, it simply isn’t allowed, and if she looks at him, he’ll be able to make her talk. If she talks, she’s gone.

“Leave me alone, Tony.”

He ignores that, coming up next to her and sitting against the edge of the second sink.

“Oh, but I’d be an awful partner if I did that,” he drawls softly, green eyes fixed on her. “What happened, Ziva?” he continues in that same quiet, even tone when it becomes clear she isn’t going to speak of her own volition.

“Nothing,” she answers flatly, though she knows it’s as useful in deterring him as it would be on a rabid dog, and he answers in return with a soft laugh.

It isn’t mocking; if anything, it’s a little bit sad, but it does what it’s supposed to, because she looks over at him. She understands somehow that he’s not laughing at her; what she doesn’t understand is why he’s laughing at all. If her gaze is angry, he pretends he doesn’t notice, saying instead, “Not even you are that good a liar, Officer David. I won’t buy the old ‘I got dust in my eyes’ line, either.”

She says nothing for long minutes, dark eyes something akin to haunted. Right now, her defences are down for perhaps the first time since he’s known her, and in a way he’s grateful, because he knows full well she probably has thirty-three ways to kill him with just a paper towel. Were she were fully herself, she’d probably have employed at least half of them by now.

“Memories,” she says finally, so softly he can barely hear her even though he’s less than two feet away.

“Ari?” The name still leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but it’s the only one he can think of.

“Tali,” she says, and her voice breaks.

She hates herself for it, but what’s done is done, and she can’t stop the onslaught of images that accompany her sister’s name. He wants nothing more than to pull her into his arms and hold her; he wants to _fix_ something for once, instead of breaking everything else, but he doesn’t, because he’s not sure she’ll appreciate it at all.

“She was thirteen when she died.” Her fingers go to the Star of David at her throat, like she’s seeking a lifeline. “I was sixteen. My father was in Russia.”

The words are halting, so unlike her usual speech; neither of them know why she’s telling him this, but now that she’s started, there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to stop.

“There was an Al-Qaeda operative in Tel Aviv who had appeared that year. He killed my uncle, and my father was furious. It became his vendetta, but when he left, they took Tali on her way home from the market.” A tear slips down her cheek; she ignores it like that will deny its existence. “They wanted information on my father, on Mossad—we had teams in the field specifically for them, and they swore they would kill Tali if I did not get them what they wanted.”

Bracing her free hand on the sink, she shakes her head. “I told them I wanted my sister first.”

He hides a smile at that—even as a half-trained teenager, she was gutsy, which hardly surprises him. So absorbed is she that she doesn’t notice; instead, she’s staring at the soap dispenser like it’s the Oracle. This time, he does reach for her, his hand above her elbow staying her nervous toying with her necklace. She almost flinches away from him, but he stands, pulling her a little closer. He’s not forcing her, but she’s still resisting; then, just as suddenly as she began talking, she stops fighting him, bracing her forehead against his shoulder and letting him support her. Even in her muddled state, her brain tells her to stop thinking of him as a coworker, because right now he’s _solid_ and _there_ , and that’s enough for her subconscious. Part of him wonders if this is what she’d be like if she was drugged—he _knows_ this isn’t what she’s like when she’s drunk—but it’s so out of sync with Ziva that the thought doesn’t last very long.

“They let her go,” she mumbles, her words muffled against his shoulder. “I gave them fake information, just enough to make it look real. I should have known, should have told someone. Then three days later, she was at the café. They sent a suicide bomber, but he had a target. The café, the street, everyone else—they were collateral damage. They wanted my sister.”

Tightening his hold on her because he doesn’t know what else to say, he runs a hand lightly across her back, pressing his cheek against her hair and wishing everything around him didn’t keep breaking into tiny pieces. Like Gibbs, who looks like he’s lost his daughter again. He _can’t_ do anything about Gibbs, because the day his “second b for bastard” boss confides in him is the day the UN spontaneously dissolves and World War III starts, but he can at least be something other than useless to his partner.

“Lee told me no one understood why she was doing it,” she says suddenly, surprising him because she’s talked more about her life in the past five minutes than she has in the three years he’s known her, and now he’s wondering if someone slipped truth serum into her water. “I have not… I cannot forget why she died, but I have not recalled it so clearly in many years,” she continues, her words still muffled. “It is like one of your movies in my head.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

It’s not really good comfort, but it’s the best he has, because while he may not have killed Jeanne or pulled the trigger on her father—or on Jenny, for that matter—the blame is still his, and the memories still refuse to leave.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly, pulling back and wiping her eyes.

Again, he’s surprised. “It’s okay.” He can’t quite bring himself to make some flippant comment, no matter how much the mood needs lightening.

“I should not have said that earlier.” Resisting the urge to ask her what she’s talking about, because he can’t bring himself to be cruel right now anymore than he can crack a joke, he just shrugs. “It was not fair to you,” she insists.

“No, it wasn’t.” The words are out before he can stop them, and the regret that strikes him is mirrored in her eyes. “But it’s okay.” His smile is bittersweet, and his voice is too quiet. “War casualties happen.”

Slowly—not quite cautiously, but not quickly enough to surprise her—he pulls her back to him, and this time she doesn’t resist at all. As she wraps her arms around his waist, he can’t help kissing her hair. It might be platonic and it might not, but she’s not castrating him on the spot and he’s not sure which of them it’s meant to comfort more.

His gaze falls on the chair in front of the door, and somewhere in the back of his mind it registers that they’re still in the women’s room and sooner or later they’re going to have to leave. Right now, however, it’s enough to feel like, even though the glue is still drying and the cracks are still visible and it’s more fragile now than it was before it broke, _something_ has been set on its way to being whole.

  
 _Finis._

Feedback is always appreciated.


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